


Mixing Metaphors Like Watercolors

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, long after he assumed he was safe, Andriy realized he was in love with Ricky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mixing Metaphors Like Watercolors

**Author's Note:**

> The hryvnia is the currency of the Ukraine, and the exchange rate between the hryynia and the dollar is about eight to one. The Ukrainian Premier League has a three month winter break.
> 
> originally posted to my lj.

One day, long after he assumed he was safe, Andriy realized he was in love with Ricky.

It started out innocently enough. He notices AC Milan jerseys out of the corner of his eye, and turns too quickly to try to catch the name on the back. When he hears Portuguese spoken with a Brazilian accent, he feels his chest get tight. He begins finding tasteless displays of religious devotion endearing.

One humidity-besmirched London summer morning, Andriy is watching the news and wondering where the fuck he’s going to end up playing next season, without real interest in either pursuit. He finds himself fiddling with his phone, flipping through his contacts, resting on Ricky’s name.

Andriy likes to pretend he has trouble remembering numbers. (How much money do I make again? When’s your birthday, sweetie? I scored how few goals?) It’s one of his oldest, easiest and falsest lies. He thinks about deleting Ricky’s name from his contacts, just for the theatricality of being able to dial his number from memory late some night, after too much vodka.

He doesn’t, though, but he does call Ricky, a few days later. He’s still sober, or still mostly sober. He’s driving, anyway, so he can’t be that drunk, can he? He drives better buzzed in any case.

It goes to Ricky’s answering machine, unsurprisingly. Andriy licks his lips and considering his options, before settling on the earnest confession. It’s always worked well for him.

“Ricky,” Andriy says, eyes on the dark road. “Ricky, I know I fucked up, I know I did, but please, please. I need you. You were always the best part of me. Ricky, let me see you again.” His voice breaks a little at the end, and when he hangs up, he’s surprised to find he’s been crying. He wipes at his eyes and smiles cynically around the heartbreak.

Ricky doesn’t call him back, so Andriy keeps calling him, at odd hours. He makes little notes to himself of Things to Tell Ricky – I heard that song on the radio you liked so much, I caught some footage of your match, I actually went to church yesterday, you’ll never guess what cute thing Jordan did, I had a dream last night about that time we fucked in the locker room.

One night, he finds himself in a hotel room, a dark-eyed boy sucking him off in the bathroom, with no memory of his intentions. The boy finishes him off, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and rises in one smooth motion, a half-smile on his lips. Andriy pulls his pants up and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, hands the kid eight thousand hryven and tells him to fuck off. He climbs into the shower and turns the water up as high as he can. He slumps against the pristine tile, pressing his eyes shut against the luxury he’s spent his life for.

Eventually, he gets out of the shower and towels himself dry, goes to lie down on the five hundred thread count sheets – a number the woman at the front desk told him, when he checked in. He handed her a thousand hryven to keep her quiet. He calls Ricky, not caring about the time difference.

Ricky answers, and Andriy’s heart nearly stops.

“Andriy?” Ricky asks. “Why do you keep calling me?”

“Don’t you listen to the messages?” Andriy asks back, a question for a question, heartbreak for heartbreak, a fair exchange.

Ricky pauses. “Not really,” he says, which is a pretty good lie, and not one he would have told a year ago. Andriy’s perversely proud of himself – because for all Ricky’s taken from him, at least he’s stolen the high ground out from under Ricky’s feet.

“I want to see you,” he tells Ricky.

“We can’t,” Ricky begins, and Andriy curses, because yeah, he’s looped back on himself, gone from Kiev to Milan to London to Milan back to fucking Kiev, the worst kind of symmetry, but this is the one thing he doesn’t have the strength to repeat.

“We can,” Andriy says, taking himself back to the first times anyway, savoring that first easy seduction. “Who’s going to stop us?”

“I don’t know, our jobs? What am I supposed to do, miss practice?” And now Andriy really does smile, cynical as he can.

“What about our wives, Ricky?” Andriy can hear Ricky’s breathing and nothing else.

“Come out and I’ll see you,” Ricky says, finally, and Andriy’s pathetically grateful for that concession.

“I love you,” he tells Ricky, sharp and painful. Ricky hangs up.

He flies to Madrid after New Years, without calling ahead. He hasn’t spoken to Ricky since the call from the hotel room, although he still occasionally leaves Ricky messages, mostly ones he’s too drunk to remember.

He checks into his hotel and flops down on the bed. He calls Ricky and leaves a voice mail – the address of his hotel and the suite number. Forty five minutes later, there’s a knock on his door. It’s Ricky, hands in his pockets, shoulders broad, unruined by time.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Andriy swears under his breath, his favorite blasphemy.

“Can I come in?” Ricky asks, flashing a smile.

“Yeah,” Andriy says, “do.”

“Nice room,” Ricky says, looking around, like it’s nothing, and Andriy swears to fucking god if Ricky tries to pretend they’re just friends, teammates, meeting again in a new city, Andriy’s going to hit him, because he’d rather abandon that premise for one that suits him better.

He doesn’t, though, just turns to look at Andriy, taking him in. Andriy looks back, trying to pretend it doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.

Ricky makes the first move, because he’s always dictated Andriy’s moves, for all Andriy’s nominal control. He steps forward and gently begins unbuttoning Andriy’s shirt, his fingers brushing Andriy’s chin as he fiddles with the collar and then dropping steadily lower. Andriy catches one of Ricky’s hands and brings it up to his mouth, kisses his palm, the tips of his fingers. Ricky lets out a quiet breath, his eyes shut, and Andriy walks him carefully back to the bed, one hand closed around his wrist, the other pressed to his chest.

Andriy fucks Ricky as slowly as he can, tries to savor it, figuring it’s either their third bittersweet ending or their third painfully perfect beginning, or maybe both. Ricky comes apart around him, like he always did, and afterward Andriy collapses on top on him, pulls them together, the way their past should have been.

“Don’t say anything,” Ricky says. “That way I don’t have to wonder if you’re lying to me.”

“I know you’re lying to me,” Andriy tells him, “but I don’t mind.” Still, he traces his promises into Ricky’s skin, instead of speaking them, figuring this way maybe they’ll last.


End file.
